


Sweetheart

by convexity



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Credence Barebone Lives, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Fix-It, Fluff, Gen, M/M, gratuitous fluff nothing explicit, protective!Graves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 19:39:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13488396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convexity/pseuds/convexity
Summary: When they’re out together, Graves calls him things like sweetheart. Credence suspends his disbelief until he feels the endearment naming him, calling him home, tucking him in.





	Sweetheart

**Author's Note:**

> i was going to make a short couple of sentences about how credence has nice relationships in the fix-it universe that I live in but it turned into a couple lines on queenie and newt and then like 8 run on paragraphs about graves lol. this is my first fantastic beasts venture.

Despite everything that happened, things are better for Credence now. He has, for the first time, love and support.

He has Queenie’s love, all featherlight touches and girlish smiles and pastries coated in powdered sugar that he licks off his fingertips.

He has Newt’s love- reserved but soft all the same, someone who understands, at least a little, what happened to Credence, the parasite that used him. He has someone who wants to show him his creatures and magic, an endlessly patient and enthusiastic presense in his life.

Credence has Grave’s love.

The only way to close that particular wound, if it can ever be closed, is by writing boldly over the memories of Grindelwald with Percival Graves. The real Percival Graves, who cares about him and _would never, ever hurt him_ , Graves promised when they were first reunited and Credence repeated it to himself that night, over and over like a mantra.

He craves the older man’s steady, warm hand on his cheek, the way Percival ducks his head to search Credence’s face with kind brown eyes when Credence’s returns to hunched and defferntial- the old posture brought to life by a rough shoulder bumping him on the street, a look from a stranger, a loud sound. Graves soothes it off him in the quietest voice he’s ever heard the man use, directed just at him, intimate and tender into the goosefleshed shell of his ear.

‘I’m right here, Credence. You’re with me. That’s it, darling. Relax for me.’

When they’re out together, Graves calls him things like _sweetheart._ Credence has never been called like that in his life until Queenie, but she calls everyone sweetie. It’s different coming from the Director, from someone who holds themsleves like Percival Graves. It sounds so oddly tender and intimate the first time that Credence becomes overwhelmed and just blushes at his feet. It keeps happening. Graves calls him sweetheart in a cafe, on the Goldstein’s doorstep when he’s hugging the boy goodbye, when he vanishes a cold wet rain from Credence’s clothes and hair, and says ‘come here, sweetheart’, holding out an arm. Credence suspends his disbelief until he feels the endearment naming him, calling him home, tucking him in. He's something loved, something cherished, something carefully looked after. He's someone called _sweetheart_.

Graves takes him out to eat, out for coffee, for tea, to magical shops and no-maj museums, to places where people are still served wine and short glasses of illegal amber booze that make Credence feel lightheaded when he smells it later on Grave’s breath, mingled with cologne from his collar. Mr Graves gets him a new jacket and shoes, will hear nothing of Credence’s protests. Graves rests his hand on the back of Credence’s neck and doesn’t seem to mind, if he notices, the way credence’s skin hums under his touch, the way his breath catches and a wave of warmth causes him to close his eyes. Credence thinks he does notice, because of the soft smiles and the way Graves uses any excuse to touch him, to pull him closer, to indulge the boy in his warm, harmless touches that ask for nothing. Even to sit in a cafe shoulder to shoulder delights Credence. When he innocently, bashfully, presses his thigh along the length of Mr Grave’s trousers because his whole body craves contact, Graves allows it, nudges him back with his thigh and lets his right hand fall to Credence’s knee, absently petting him with the brush of his thumb.

Credence can’t believe the articulate way in which he can talk to Graves, full sentences and ideas and stories where he doesn’t even feel self conscious or anxious once. Mr Graves listens to him intently, always with respect, and says the most incredible things. Credence can’t believe the attention this important man gives him, how he cares what he thinks. No one has ever cared what he thought before. Did he prefer the red wine or the white? A black coat or navy blue? The seared fish or the blackened? He doesn't know. He just wants Graves to choose for him, to mold him like clay. Relinquishing all control to Mr Graves feels good. Knowing he won't suffer from it feels like trust, and Credence can't get enough. Graves seemed to like it when he chose for himself, though, and Grave's pleasure directed at him was a warm sunbeam Credence would prefer to bask in forever. So he chooses. Graves would remember the preferences, filing them in some mental space reserved just for Credence, quirks and preferences. He liked pink wine best, or else the red was good, especially with something sweet like chocolate. He liked scallops wrapped in bacon and pitted dates with french cheese and for his coat collar to be lined in soft fabric, for his hair to be allowed to grow out past his ears and his coffee with a little milk, no sugar. 

Mr Graves wanted Credence to tell him what he though about no-maj politics, about radio and automobiles, about the dark tendrils of religion that tried to poison modern no-maj cities with fear and shame of which Credence was so familiar. Credence didn’t know how he felt about most things Graves asked him, so he simply reported what facts and anecdotes he could. Graves would nod thoughtfully, ask another question, and Credence would hope he had done alright, that he had answered satisfactorily.

It wasn’t until one conversation where Credence’ tongue had become loosened by a few glasses of wine that he realized he could inject his own feelings into what he said. He could have an opinion, a bias, and express it without fear of reprisal or punishment. Graves wasn’t testing him or trying to corner him into an answer considered wrong, he just wanted to talk with him.

Drunk on this realization, he said the most he’s ever said out loud to aother person. He started asking questions about the magical world, bolder than he’d ever been, open as a child and for once, blissfully unafraid. They talked so long that night that when Graves returned him to the Goldstein’s doorstep the sisters were relieved, saying they had begun to worry and ‘would have come to look for him already if he hadn’t been with _you,_ Mr Graves.’ Tina’d breathed.

‘Safe and sound,’ Graves chuckled softly, pressing a chaste kiss to Credence’s temple before bidding he and the sisters goodnight, leaving a blushing and wine warmed Credence to be ushered into the doorway, a knowing smirk on Queenie’s pink lips.

**Author's Note:**

> [ im bastardgirls on tumblr](http://bastardgirls.tumblr.com/)


End file.
